


i know we're gonna uncover what's sleeping in our soul

by softirwin



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), All Time Low (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Needles, yes another soulmate au from me like i havent done enough damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin
Summary: The most exciting thing about Luke’s twenty-first birthday is the same as everyone else’s.On a person’s twenty-first birthday, they get access to their soulmate.
Relationships: Jack Barakat/Alex Gaskarth, Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71





	i know we're gonna uncover what's sleeping in our soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifewasradical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifewasradical/gifts).



> this was written for the wonderful [amanda](https://lifewasradical.tumblr.com/) for the fic exchange event hosted by the lovely [hazel](https://allsassnoclass.tumblr.com/)! i hope i did your reader profile some justice (especially the side jalex i cant lie that was very self-indulgent we are on the same wavelength truly) and i deeply apologise for the length i simply cannot stop writing i really cannot the process of writing this fic literally went:
> 
> me: i'm aiming for 7k  
> bella: good goal  
> me: ok new goal: under 10k  
> bella: good goal  
> me: ok new goal: under 15k  
> bella: good goal
> 
> which i (just about) achieved :) so really i am the queen of conciseness i don't want to hear anything to the contrary 
> 
> thank yous go out to my lovely bella and ainslee and an anonymous friend from uni for listening to me rant abt this fic especially to the anonymous friend who is going to wake up to a running commentary on how this fic was going sorry mate xo 
> 
> yes! me! back w another fic! amazingly not a chaptered one can we believe it. although i have to say if i just took an hour i would finish the next chapter of britpop its so nearly done and i'm hoping i can keep britpop under about 120k but the fact i thought that fic was going to be 8k when i started. HILARIOUS. i am so bad at estimating this shit. anyway how is everyone! i'm home from uni for christmas so i'm hoping i will have a liiiiiittle more time to write but i have A Lot of things to be doing i'm a busy busy lady this holiday season but i'm wishing you all a very happy holidays and a merry christmas if you celebrate it 
> 
> also please follow me on [tumblr](https://calumcest.tumblr.com/) i swear i am actually on it more now

The most exciting thing about Luke’s twenty-first birthday is the same as everyone else’s. 

On a person’s twenty-first birthday, they get access to their soulmate. At least, in theory. In practice, it’s a little more complicated - most people’s soulmates aren’t exactly the same age as them, so some people have to wait a few years, and some people find out they haven’t got a soulmate, and a small handful of people find out their soulmate has already passed away. It’s a complicated process that’s built up over generations - when Luke’s grandparents were younger, it was still the norm for governments to inform people of the identity of their soulmate on their twenty-first birthday, but privacy and mental health concerns in recent years following a few nasty high-profile situations where people discovered their soulmates were serious criminals led to the passing of international legislation restricting access to the information. Now, the only way a person can find their soulmate is by writing to them, or the dreaded letter that arrives the day after their twenty-first birthday informing them that their soulmate has predeceased them. 

Luke’s sort of the baby in his circle, so he’s the last to find out. His brothers are both older and so by the time Luke really understood the system they’d already found their soulmates; Alex and Jack had already known they were soulmates when Luke had met them, also being a few years older; and when Calum had woken up on his twenty-first birthday to see _it best be you, dickhead_ scrawled on his arm in Michael’s messy handwriting it had only really been a formality, confirming what everyone already knew. 

Luke, though, has no idea who his soulmate could be. There’s no one he’s ever felt that alleged special affinity with, no matter how hard he’s tried to force it. He’s never felt entirely safe with someone, the way that Ben describes it, never felt at home with someone, the way that Michael describes it, never felt _at peace, like, deep in your soul, like the universe is balanced just right around you_ the way that Calum describes it. He _has_ felt the desire to punch people in the throat before, as Alex and Jack both describe it, but he thinks that’s probably more of a them problem than it is a universal experience. 

And it’s not that Luke’s particularly unusual in that - the vast majority of people don’t know who their soulmate is before their birthdays. Ben and Jack both had to fly to different countries to meet theirs, and Alex and Jack had been on opposite sides of the USA, and the way Michael talks about it, Quakers Hill would seem to be on a different continent to Mount Druitt. It’s what Luke tells himself every time he looks in the mirror at four in the morning, alcohol and often something else swimming through his veins, and sees the fear of _what if I’ll be one of the lonely ones?_ etched into the cloudy blue of his eyes. _You’ll be fine. Almost no one knows their soulmate before their twenty-first birthday. Lots of people don’t even know them then. You’re not even twenty-one yet; just be patient._

Except, now he _is_ twenty-one. 

It’s two minutes past midnight, and Luke’s sat on his bed, already a little buzzed, Michael and Calum flanking him, pen poised over his inner forearm. This is how it works - as soon as the clock ticks over to midnight on a person’s twenty-first birthday, their soulmate (if they’re already over twenty-one) is accessible. And the way to communicate is by writing to them. Luke still isn’t quite sure how it works, because it just _does,_ so he’s never questioned it, but what one soulmate writes on their skin appears on the other’s, like a temporary tattoo. It fades after a few hours, but it’s usually there long enough for the person to notice; after all, who wouldn’t spot a new _hi, hello,_ or the odd grocery shopping list appearing on their hand or arm? 

“What do I say?” Luke says, a little nervously. 

“Just say hi,” Calum suggests, and Michael scoffs. “What?” Calum says, turning to Michael and raising an eyebrow. “You got a better idea?” 

“Well, it’s not very _original,_ is it?” Michael says haughtily. 

“It doesn’t have to be _original,_ Mike, it just has to work,” Calum says. 

“Okay, but what if it doesn’t work _because_ it’s not original?” Michael says. Luke’s grip on the pen tightens. 

“Who’s going to reject their soulmate because they said ‘hi’?” Calum points out. Michael crosses his arms, and shrugs. 

“I would’ve,” he says. 

“Only because you knew it was me.” 

“Yeah, and?” 

“Guys,” Luke says, anxiety leaking into the edges of his tone, and the two of them start a little, like they’ve just remembered he’s there. 

“Just say hello,” Calum says. 

“Hello?” Michael echoes. “What is he, some eighteenth century English lord? Say ‘hi’, Luke, or ‘hey’.” 

“What, you can’t say ‘hello’ now?” Calum demands. “Anyway, it’s the _principle,_ alright? Just greet them. It doesn’t have to be the best introduction in the world.” Yeah, Luke thinks. Yeah, that makes sense, right? It doesn’t have to be stellar; it’s just got to be _something._ So he nods, takes a deep breath, and lets the pen touch his skin.

 _Hi._

The word sits on his skin like everything he’s ever written on it before, doesn’t sink in or dissolve or do a little jig. Luke hadn’t been expecting it to - after all, he’s seen enough soulmates write things to their partners - but it looks just like when he used to hastily jot down his homework for the day because he’d forgotten his planner again, and it’s oddly underwhelming. It doesn’t look - or feel - like something he’s been anticipating for years is happening, despite the butterflies in his stomach. It looks a little lonesome. 

“Well?” Michael asks impatiently. 

“It’s been thirty fucking seconds, Mike, Jesus Christ,” Calum says, swigging from his beer. 

“So?” Michael says, craning his neck to look at Luke’s arm. “Punctuality is an important quality in a partner, you know.” Calum scoffs incredulously, and Michael scowls. “Except if your partner is me. I have enough incredible traits to make up for it.” Calum just throws him a slightly-fond-but-mostly-exasperated look, and turns back to Luke, who’s still staring at his arm.

“Maybe they live in a different timezone,” Calum suggests. “Or maybe they’re younger than you.” 

“Maybe,” Luke allows, and puts his arm back down on his lap, but doesn’t stop staring at it. “Maybe they’re busy.” 

“Maybe,” Calum agrees. 

“Maybe we should finish these fucking beers,” Michael says pointedly, and Luke finally tears his gaze away from his arm and over to Michael, who’s gesturing at the crate they’d lugged upstairs (‘they’ being Calum and Michael, because Luke refuses to lift anything heavier than a book). He’s got a point - it’s Luke’s birthday, and there’s a slim chance of his soulmate replying immediately, so he might as well enjoy himself. 

“Alright,” Luke says, reaching for another bottle. “But don’t you fucking pussy out on me at two in the morning again.”

“What the fuck?” Michael demands indignantly, also reaching for a bottle. “When have we ever done that?”

\-------

At two a.m., when Calum and Michael have stumbled blearily into bed together, Michael curling around Calum as they drifted off to sleep, Luke’s sat up in bed, staring at his arm. It still only says _hi,_ and Luke’s trying to focus his alcohol-addled mind as much he can to will it to say more, to say _hey, I’ve been waiting for you_ underneath Luke’s writing _,_ but nothing changes. 

And logically, Luke knows there are countless explanations as to why he hasn’t heard anything from his soulmate yet, least of which is that it’s only been a couple of hours. There’s a high chance his soulmate is younger than him, or asleep, or just busy, and a slim chance that they could be- well. Luke doesn’t want to think about that. It’s just- Luke’s been wanting this for _years,_ always daydreamed about his soulmate, about the colour of their eyes and the sound of their laugh and the warmth of their touch. He’s conjured fantasy after fantasy in his mind about how his twenty-first birthday would go, about how he’d meet his soulmate and immediately fall in love, about the comfort and safety and fulfilment he would feel. Because that’s the whole thing about soulmates; they’re _made_ for you, made to fill in the gaps in your soul that you can’t even see, and as Luke blinks at the single word written on his arm, a word that feels like it needs completing somehow, he realises he might want that more than he’d realised. 

After a good ten minutes of staring and trying to engage any telepathy he may have, Luke decides that if his soulmate isn’t going to add anything, Luke’s going to have to do it himself. So he reaches for a pen, thinks for the briefest of seconds before a slightly-drunken thought tells him _just introduce yourself, tell them about yourself,_ and he writes:

_My name is Luke. It’s my twenty-first birthday today. I live in Sydney, Australia, and I have two brothers and a dog. What’s your name?_

It reads like one of his French oral exams at school that he barely passed, but Luke’s satisfied with it, capping the pen and setting it aside. It’s good to give a bit more information, right? Surely his soulmate will appreciate more than just a _hi,_ will be more likely to reply if they know a little more about him. Plus, he’s asked a question, and it’s only polite to respond to a question, isn’t it? They’ll be trapped into responding by social etiquette, if they’re of age.

Yeah, he thinks, satisfied, as he rolls over on his side and lets his heavy eyes fall shut. If his soulmate is old enough, he’ll have heard back by the morning. 

\-------

When Luke wakes up to the sun streaming through his window - fuck, they forgot to shut the curtains last night - he momentarily forgets what day it is, too focused on swearing under his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, debating whether it’s worth getting up to shut the curtains or not. He decides it is, and heaves himself out of bed, and as he’s padding over to the curtains, arms already outstretched, he sees two lines of text on his arm. 

Luke had written more than two lines. He’d written a few, all bunched together in a long paragraph. And this handwriting is bigger than Luke’s, more confident, more assertive. 

It’s his soulmate. 

Luke stops dead, twisting his arm around so fast he thinks he might have given himself a Chinese burn, heart beating so fast that it’s all he can hear, and reads. 

_I’m sorry. I don’t want to be your soulmate._

And then, like an afterthought added reluctantly in a smaller script underneath: _Happy birthday._

Luke stares at the words, reading them over and over, each hastily scribbled scratch of the pen like a tiny needle in his heart; not quite enough to tear it apart entirely, but enough to make it ache and leak. 

So he has a soulmate. A soulmate who doesn’t want him back.

It doesn’t make sense, he thinks, a little disoriented, stumbling back towards his bed and reaching for the pen he’d left on his bedside table almost on autopilot. Luke’s soulmate doesn’t even _know_ him. How can they not want to be his soulmate? What did he do wrong? How can he have ruined something that’s predestined, something that’s fated to happen? 

_What?_ he writes back. The ink is harsh black on his pale skin, dug too deep into the flesh of his arm, sitting on top of his skin rather than underneath it like the words from his soulmate - some kind of sick symbolism, maybe, Luke thinks dazedly. An impenetrable layer between them, and it’s his own skin and bone. He’s heard of people not wanting their soulmates, but only _after_ meeting them, or finding out that they’ve committed some horrible crime, or something of the sort. He doesn’t know of anyone who doesn’t want their soulmate _before_ meeting them. 

“Hey,” Calum says suddenly and sleepily, clearing his throat and making Michael groan, stirring in his arms. “Did they write back yet?” Luke blinks, swallowing around a dry mouth. 

He could lie. He could pull his sleeve down and say _nah, not yet,_ and Calum would hum noncommittally and say _sorry, mate, keep trying, I guess,_ and that would be it. He could keep it to himself, wouldn’t have to admit to those around him that somehow, he’s managed to turn his soulmate away from him before they even know him, that while they’re all in happy relationship with their soulmates, he’s managed to fuck his up before it began. 

But on the other hand, he doesn’t know how long he could keep up that lie, because people would keep asking from time to time, and keeping it to himself feels like it would slowly eat at him from the inside out, teeth digging into the fabric of his soul and tearing it into even smaller pieces, and so he swallows, and says: “Yeah.” His voice is thick and wobbly, and it makes Calum’s brow crease, makes him struggle to sit upright leaning on his elbows, ignoring Michael’s noises of protest. 

“What?” Calum asks, sounding concerned. “What’s wrong?” Luke wants to cry. 

“I-” he starts, and then stops. He doesn’t think he can say the words aloud. Instead, he holds out his arm, sleeve still rolled up, and watches as Calum’s eyes flit over the words, then looks away quickly as he sees Calum’s expression shift from concern to pity. 

“Oh, Luke,” he says softly, and now Luke _doesn’t_ want to cry but can’t stop it, can’t help the tears that are pricking at his eyes, forcing him to swipe at them hastily before they can fall. 

“I don’t get it,” Luke says, a little numbly. “I- how can they not- they don’t even _know_ me.” 

“I know,” Calum says, shoving Michael off him and swinging his legs out of the bed they’re sharing. “Oh, Luke. I’m so sorry.” But Luke doesn’t _want_ Calum to be sorry. He wants his soulmate to want him back. Was it the stilted introduction? Maybe Michael was right; maybe Luke should have thought of a more striking opener, should have mentioned some interesting facts about himself, come up with something flirtatious and witty and suave. Maybe his soulmate took one look at Luke’s nervous, awkward introduction and thought _nah, fuck that, I’d rather be alone than have this guy as my soulmate._

“I should’ve said something better,” Luke says quietly, letting himself be pulled into Calum as he sits down next to him and puts a warm, strong arm around Luke’s shoulder. “Michael was right.”

“Oh, fuck Michael,” Calum says, with feeling, and Michael opens one eye a crack. 

“Wha’ve I done?” Michael mumbles, and then, like he’s just remembered what day it is, he shoots bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and excited. “Oh, fuck, did they reply, Luke? Did they say something? What did they say, was it-”

“Mike,” Calum says warningly, and shoots Michael a look that Luke doesn’t need to be his soulmate to understand - _shut the fuck up, Jesus, read the fucking room._ Michael falters, and then frowns. 

“What happened?” he says, a little fiercely. “Are they a dickhead?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “A proper cunt.” 

“Hey,” Luke protests weakly, and Calum’s arm around him tightens. 

“What did they say?” Michael asks. Luke hesitates, swallows, and then holds his arm out. 

“Hang on, I need my-” Michael says, fumbling around on the bedside table for his glasses, and then swears when he realises they’re covered in fingerprints, wiping them hastily on his t-shirt before shoving them on his nose and squinting at the writing on Luke’s arm. He reads the words at least three times, going from a frown to a clenched jaw, and then looks up at the two of them, green eyes ablaze behind his glasses. 

“What the fuck?” he demands, and whips his glasses off. “What the fuck?” 

“I know,” Calum agrees, stroking Luke’s bicep. “It’s fucked up.” 

“They don’t even _know_ you. All you said was ‘hi’.” Luke bites his lip.

“I wrote a bit more,” he says. “After you went to bed. I just- just introduced myself. Said it was my birthday, I live in Sydney, have two brothers and a dog.” 

“Alright, so all you did was fucking introduce yourself,” Michael corrects, leaning into his anger. “What the fuck sort of reason could they have for saying that?” 

“Mike,” Calum says gently, and Michael’s gaze turns to him for a moment and then softens in understanding. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I just- fuck. I’m sorry, Luke.” He sets his glasses aside, gets up and sits on Luke’s other side, wrapping his arm around Luke’s waist, and that’s too much for Luke - he starts crying in earnest, big, ugly sobs that come from the frayed patches of his soul that feel like they’ll never be stitched together because the needle doesn’t want to play ball. Michael and Calum just cradle him through it, whispering soothing words, humming quietly, pressing soft kisses to his shoulders and temples and forehead as they rub gentle circles on his skin. It’s enough to stave off some of the desperate longing leaking from the pinpricks in his heart, enough to give him a little splutter of a spark in his veins that reminds him _hey, you still have people who love you._ It’s not _enough_ enough, and Luke vaguely thinks it never quite will be, but it’s enough to stem the flow of tears, to make him sniff and ask for a tissue through a thick throat, to make him clear his throat and try on a watery smile. 

“D’you want us to tell your parents?” Calum asks quietly, taking Luke’s snotty, tear-stained tissue from him and setting it on the bedside table. Fuck, Luke thinks, as a fresh wave of tears brim in his eyes. He’s got to tell everyone else, now, too. Over and over, telling person after person _yeah, my soulmate doesn’t want me. My soulmate doesn’t want me._

“No,” Luke says, even though he does want Michael and Calum to tell his parents. “I- I should tell them.” 

“Okay,” Calum says gently. 

“Can you-” Luke cuts himself off, biting his lip. Michael and Calum just wait, though, so Luke bids the scraps of his dignity farewell, and mumbles: “Can you tell Alex and Jack, though?” He feels both Calum’s and Michael’s arms tighten around him, feels Michael pressing a kiss to Luke’s shoulder as Calum says _yeah, mate, of course we can. Of course._

 _(Happy birthday,_ the words underneath the line etched into Luke’s skin telling him _I don’t want you_ say, now wet with the tears dripping from Luke’s cheeks onto his sleeves. Yeah, Luke thinks bitterly. Happy fucking birthday to him.) 

\------- 

Telling everybody is exactly as painful as Luke had anticipated. 

He manages to tell his family in one go, because they ask over his birthday dinner, and he almost manages not to cry into the stunned silence as he says it, only breaking when Ben sighs sadly and pulls Luke into his chest for a tight hug. Alex and Jack call around four to ask him whether he’s finally going to get laid _(what, Lex, that’s literally how you wish someone a happy twenty-first birthday, what’s your fucking problem),_ and Luke makes big, wide eyes at Calum, who throws a quick glance at Michael, who snatches the phone out of Luke’s hands and hastily walks out of the room, whispering something fiercely with a knitted brow and his hand cupped over the receiver. When he comes back in and hands the phone back to Luke, Alex and Jack have switched tack completely, all attempts at normalcy and breeziness mitigated by the oddly gentle, hesitant tones to their voices. Luke hates it, hates the pity and the microscope he feels like he’s under, the fact that he’s done the whole thing wrong somehow before even starting it, so he mumbles his excuses and hangs up on them as soon as he can, lying back on the sofa and staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

The first few weeks are almost equally bad - Luke just wants to forget about it all, pretend that everything is normal outside of his own head, make-believe that his world hasn’t had a harsh spotlight shone on it showing the cracks in the façade he’s been admiring as though it were worthy of the Louvre, but everyone’s walking on eggshells around him, whispering whenever he leaves a room and stopping abruptly as soon as he comes in, or throwing him concerned and pitying looks. He hates it, hates that his mum will come into his room every evening and ask him too-casually how his day’s been, hates that Calum and Alex will ask him how he’s doing and look too sad when he says he’s fine, hates that Jack and Michael will bluntly tell him _fuck someone else, forget about them._ He just wants things to be normal again, doesn’t want the constant reminder that even the person made for him doesn’t want him swelling up in his lungs and choking him day in, day out. 

He does a lot of research in those first few weeks. The majority of the results are about soulmate pairings where one person has moral qualms with the other, and a smaller group are about pairings where one partner only sees a platonic future where the other wants a romantic future - those are rare, though, as the system is designed to take these preferences into account - and it’s only on Luke’s second week of searching that he finds something, a tiny footnote at the bottom of an article about being soulmates with a serial killer. _Choosing love,_ it says, and when Luke clicks on the link it opens up an ancient-looking website that says _Choosing love: soulmates and the autonomous self._

It’s not a long article, and it’s riddled with spelling mistakes, but the gist of it seems to be that the author thinks the soulmate system is fucked up in principle, not in practice - they readily acknowledge that their soulmate _is_ perfect for them, but resent the idea of having love _assigned_ to them. _It brings in ideas of free will raised by such authors as-_ and then Luke stops understanding, eyes glazing over as he reads _metaphysical libertarianism_ and _fatalism_ and _compatibilism._ So maybe this is what Luke’s soulmate’s problem is, Luke thinks, rereading the first few paragraphs that he actually understood. But it doesn’t make any fucking sense - why would someone try and choose someone that might not be right for them, when the right person is at their fingertips? 

(He asks one night, after a few too many hours alone with his thoughts. _Why don’t you want to be my soulmate?_ But it, like everything he’s written over the past month since his birthday, goes unanswered.)

Luke tries to reach out a few more times over the next few weeks, with varying degrees of success. His soulmate is completely unresponsive when Luke asks where they live, or how old they are, or what they do for a living, or what they look like. 

_Can you at least tell me your name?_ he asks once. No response. 

_Okay, what about your initials?_ he asks the next day. Again, no response. 

_One initial?_ he tries, the day after that. _Please. Just your first initial._ Maybe it’s the ‘please’ that does it, or maybe Luke’s soulmate is just sick of being asked the same question three days in a row and doesn’t want to get _half a letter? Write it in code?_ tomorrow, but when Luke wakes up the next morning there’s a tiny, slightly-smudged _A_ written underneath where he’d asked for the initial. 

That’s the last Luke hears from his soulmate. 

For a while, he writes a few times a day, tries to say something witty or something clever or something interesting. He tells A about his job, tells them about how frustrating it is to have Jack as his co-worker and Alex as his boss (because seriously, Jack should be fired at least four times an hour, and he’s fairly sure your boss being your soulmate violates a fair few codes of conflict of interest), tells them about Michael and Calum and how he sort of wishes he’d gone to university like they did. A never responds, and so after a while Luke gets self-conscious and stops writing so often, just checks in once a day in the evening to give A a roundup of the previous twenty-four hours. Luke figures the person doesn’t care, probably won’t read it, but it’s like a more cathartic version of a diary, one that has the possibility of being read and talking back, however slim the probability may be. Every evening, just before he goes to bed, he rounds up his day, vents to A about Jack breaking a bass in the shop _again,_ laments that he doesn’t get to see Michael and Calum as often as he’d like to, talks about the regulars who come in like clockwork for their guitar strings, muses about whether he should get up early and get a coffee on the way to work tomorrow or whether he should get as much precious sleep as he can. He fills his arm from left to right, twisting it all the way around until he has to hold the pen at such a strange angle that he can barely control it, getting out all his thoughts and grievances and little things he’s observed that day, and when he wakes up in the morning, his arm is completely empty again. A never writes back, never even indicates that they’ve seen or read Luke’s ramblings, but they never tell him to stop it, either. And while that probably doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t _not_ mean anything, either, and that’s as good as Luke figures it’s going to get for him. Plus, it becomes so ingrained in Luke’s daily routine that he barely even notices he’s doing it, and he sort of thinks getting a response might throw him off a bit.

(One night, so drunk he can barely stand, Luke scrawls _I wish you wanted me. I wish I didn’t have to be alone._ It’s gone when he wakes up the next morning, but there’s a tiny pen marking underneath where it had been, like A had gone to write something and then thought better of it.) 

A week or so after that incident, Luke’s just taking out his earphones, still humming along to the song he’d been listening to as he shoulders the door to the shop open, when Jack appears right in front of his face, making him jump and drop his phone. 

“Jesus Christ,” Luke mutters, picking his phone up from the floor and inspecting it for damage he can sue Jack for. 

“Glad you noticed,” Jack says. “Come to the back room.” Luke stops, and narrows his eyes. 

“What for?” he says suspiciously. 

“What do you mean, what for?” Jack says, sounding a little affronted. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, we need to fix that. We should do a team bonding day,” Jack says, just as Alex walks around the corner. “Hey, Lex, d’you think me and Luke can do a team bonding day?”

“A team bonding day?” Alex echoes, raising an eyebrow. “I thought torture was illegal in Australia.” 

“That’s true,” Jack agrees placidly. “I’m not sure I can spend a whole day with Luke.” Luke scowls, aiming a kick at Jack’s ankle, just as Alex passes by and says: “I was talking about you, idiot.” 

“I’m a fucking _pleasure_ to spend time with,” Jack says, voice rising as Alex walks away. “You spend _all_ your time with me.” 

“For legal purposes,” Alex calls over his shoulder. Jack frowns.

“Legal purposes?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Alex shouts. “The life insurance papers have to look convincing.” It’s Jack’s turn to scowl, yelling _fuck you_ at Alex’s retreating figure and getting a _you can’t afford my fees_ in return. 

“Not on the fucking salary you pay me,” Jack shouts, and then turns to Luke. “Come to the back room.” Luke eyes him warily. 

“No,” he says. Jack scowls again. 

“Aren’t I your manager?” he says. “Come to the back room.” 

“I think I’m your manager at the moment,” Luke says, because who’s manager is dependent on the whims of a certain Alex Gaskarth and Jack breaking _another_ bass last week had outdone Luke accidentally selling an Epiphone for half its retail price. Jack, though, just waves a hand dismissively, then grabs Luke’s wrist and starts tugging him towards the back room. 

“Hey,” Luke protests, trying to plant his feet and failing miserably - Jesus, Jack’s stronger than he looks. “This is kidnapping.” 

“Kidnapping?” Jack says. “You know where you’re going.”

“But I don’t want to be,” Luke says, grabbing onto the desk as he’s pulled past and scrabbling to hold onto it. Jack just yanks harder, dislodging Luke’s grip, and forces him into the back room. 

“What?” Luke asks warily, when Jack finally lets go, glancing around at the cardboard boxes filling their shelving units up to the ceiling full of new bass and electric guitars that Luke was meant to unbox two days ago but didn’t. “What have you done?” 

“Nothing!” Jack protests, and then kicks the door shut behind them and grins. “It’s what I’m _going_ to do.” Luke groans, tipping his head back, and shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, taking a step back and holding his hands up. “Nope. I’m not getting involved in this.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know it’s something I don’t want to be involved in.”

“No you don’t,” Jack says. 

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because it’s something _you’re_ planning.” Jack pouts. 

“Listen-” he starts, taking a step forward towards Luke, who instinctively takes another step back, and that’s all Luke hears because then his heel is hitting a cardboard box hard, forcing it back against the wall, and the box on top of that is wobbling and making the box on top of that one wobble even more, and Luke says _shit_ and flings his arms out to steady himself, catching the metal of the shelving unit and pulling it towards him, making all of the heavy, _heavy_ fucking guitars in it come crashing down on top of him. A few land next to him with ugly crunching sounds and accompanying twangs, and a few hit his legs and force him to the ground, and then a few are hitting his stomach and chest and crushing his organs, making him gasp for breath, and then a few are hitting his head, making him momentarily unable to see as his vision swims so much it almost disappears entirely, and then Luke must lose consciousness because the next thing he hears is a distant voice shouting, sounding incredibly worried.

“Luke?” they’re yelling. “Luke? Fuck. Oh, _fuck._ Shit. Luke, Luke, are you okay? Are you- fuck, fuck, Lex, help me, help me move- no, not that, you fucking _idiot,_ that’s going to-” and then Jack’s face comes into view, uncharacteristic concern etched on his features. 

“Huh,” Luke says weakly. “You look funny when you care about me.” And then he passes out again. 

\-------

When Luke wakes up again, he’s in hospital. 

At first, it sends a jolt of fear running through him when he wakes up in an all-white, clinical-looking environment, but his brain supplies a helpful _hey, remember when all those guitars fell on you? That was pretty wack,_ and then it sort of makes sense. 

“Oh, hey!” someone says, and Luke’s head snaps to the left to find the source of the voice. It’s a pretty - very fucking pretty, oh God - man, standing next to a bunch of machines, some of which are bleeping, some of which are blinking. “You’re up.”

“I’m up,” Luke says, and finds that his throat is dry and raspy. He coughs, and tries again. “Uh. Who are you?” 

“I’m Ashton,” the guy says. “I’m your nurse. Well, until my shift ends.” 

“Oh,” Luke says. “Hi. I’m Luke.” Ashton grins, hazel eyes lighting up in amusement, and steps back from the machines he’s been fiddling with. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “How are you feeling?” 

“Uh,” Luke says, and looks down at himself. His right arm is bound in a cast, and when he tries to wriggle his toes he finds his left foot in a cast too, and winces when he takes a deep breath. “My body hurts.” Ashton huffs out a laugh, and moves to the foot of Luke’s bed to pick up a tablet. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You had a bunch of guitars fall on you. You’re lucky you came out of it with just a few broken bones and a concussion.” 

“And probably a huge bill for damages, if my boss is anything to go by,” Luke adds, and Ashton looks up from the tablet with a small smile. 

“Nightmare boss?” he says, and then frowns. “Hang on, you’ve had a visitor claiming to be your boss. American guy?” 

“Not the one with skunk hair?” Luke asks in trepidation, because the last thing he wants to deal with is Jack Barakat in a hospital environment, and Ashton shakes his head. 

“No, but he was with him,” he says. “I think they’re both still here, actually. They were insistent that they wanted to be here when you woke up, but I can tell them to leave, if you’d like.” Luke hesitates. 

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “The boss thing was, uh. A joke. Well. Kind of. He is a shitty boss. But. Not like that.” He swallows. Fuck. He should not be allowed to interact with hot men, honestly. Maybe Ashton will just think these incredibly lacking social skills are a part of the concussion and not just Luke’s main failing as a person. 

“It’s still visiting hours, so if you want they can come in, but I’ll get the doctor to check you over first, since you’re awake now,” Ashton says, and Luke nods. Yeah. He should probably get checked over. Seems like the kind of thing you do in a hospital, right? 

“Sure,” he says, and Ashton throws him one final grin before heading out of the room. Luke exhales shakily, lying back on the pillow and staring up at the ceiling. 

Fuck. He hopes he’s sick enough to stay in hospital forever, and that Ashton’s on shift tomorrow, too, and the day after that, and the day after that. However long it takes for Luke to become socially adept, really.

\-------

The doctor tells him something about _broken leg_ and _fractured wrist_ and _broken ribs_ and _bruised internally,_ but all Luke hears is _will take a few months to heal fully but no lasting damage, and we’re just going to keep you in for today and tomorrow and monitor your situation, since you had a fairly nasty concussion._ Jack and Alex come bursting in as soon as the doctor gives Luke the all-clear for visitors, rushing to his side and telling him how fucking stupid he is, what the fuck, why would he grab onto the fucking shelving unit to steady himself, but their eyes are shining with worry and their faces are a little red and puffy, and it makes Luke’s heart lurch in his chest in an oddly pleasant way. Alex tells Luke he’ll give him a pay raise if he doesn’t sue for workplace injury, and Luke laughs and then immediately groans in pain and says _don’t make me laugh, I’ve broken my ribs._

(“Don’t worry,” Jack assures him, “Michael and Cal are coming in after us. You're safe on the laughing front.”) 

Michael and Calum do visit after Alex and Jack, but only get to stay for five minutes before Ashton’s sticking his head in the door and saying _Luke, your parents are here, and they’re not happy that everyone’s seen you before they have._

(“He’s your type, isn’t he?” Michael says loudly, before the door’s even closed behind Ashton, and Luke wants to die. He wonders whether he can force one of his broken ribs to puncture his lungs, or something.) 

By the time his parents have finished fussing over him, his mum plumping up his pillows and his dad clapping a hand on his broken leg that makes Luke let out a choked scream of pain, Luke’s so exhausted that he just falls straight asleep, only waking up when he hears some shuffling around his bed. 

“Mm?” he mumbles, blinking blearily, and finds Ashton smiling apologetically at him. 

“Sorry,” he stage-whispers. “I’m not great at being quiet.” 

“No, no, ‘s all good,” Luke says, swallowing like it’s going to get the horrible taste out of his mouth. 

“How are you?” 

“Fine, thanks, and you?” Luke answers automatically, and then belatedly realises he’s lying in a hospital bed with an IV in and a few broken bones. “Uh. I mean-” he says hastily, but Ashton just laughs, gentle and amused. It sends a shiver down Luke’s spine, although that might just be whatever Ashton’s just pressed on the machine blinking next to Luke’s head. 

“Do you ever get a good answer to that?” Luke asks, turning his head to look at Ashton. 

“To what?”

“To asking people how they are in a hospital.” Ashton smiles down at the tube he’s fiddling with, and Luke tries not to think about the fact that the other end of the tube is inside him, tries not to let his stomach turn. It’s probably not very sexy to throw up in front of Hot Ashton. 

“Not really,” Ashton says. “But it’s free to care, right?” Oh, God. Hot Ashton is also Caring Ashton. Fuck. Luke is _not_ in the right state of mind to deal with this. 

“I guess,” Luke says. 

“So, how are you?” Ashton asks, smile still playing at his lips. 

“Uh,” Luke says. “Tired. My body still hurts.” 

“You should rest,” Ashton advises him. “Pretty much the best thing you can do for your body right now.” 

“Yeah,” Luke says, and then without thinking, adds: “I mean, I _was_ resting, until…” he trails off, rational part of his brain kicking in and screaming _what the fuck, Luke, that’s your fucking nurse, that’s so rude, that’s so unprofessional, you’re going to get kicked out of hospital and forced to try and heal your broken bones on your own_ (okay, maybe not so rational), but Ashton just laughs, bright and amused. 

“Point taken,” he says, but he’s still grinning, so Luke figures he’s safe. “Sorry for disturbing your beauty sleep.”

“I’ll send my botox bill your way,” Luke says, and Ashton arches an eyebrow, stepping back from the machines at Luke’s side. 

“I’m not sure that’ll hold up in court,” he says. 

“Guess we’ll have to find out,” Luke says, eyes following Ashton as he crosses the room over to the door. Ashton huffs out a laugh, looking over at Luke as he pulls the door open and lets light spill from the bright hallway into the room, making him glow softly like some kind of weird, scrubs-clad angel. 

“Sleep well, Luke,” he says, and then the light is gone.

\-------

Luke does sleep well. 

He sleeps for most of the next day, only waking up for a very groggy talk with a new doctor of which he takes absolutely nothing in, then for a very painful walk to the bathroom with a brisk nurse who tugs on his elbow too hard, and then when Alex, Jack, Michael and Calum all pile into his room as soon as visiting hours begin. He’s kind of glad they’re all there, because it means they can entertain each other rather than him having to partake in the conversation, so he can just lie back, exhausted, and watch them bicker over whether or not Luke would notice if they stole his hospital food. Wait, hang on-

“Hey,” Luke says, frowning. “No one’s stealing my hospital food. I need to _heal.”_

“But it’s salmon tonight,” Michael protests. “You don’t even _like_ salmon.” Luke pulls a face. He really _doesn’t_ like salmon. 

“So, what, I should starve?” he says indignantly, even though he probably would rather starve than eat salmon. 

“We can sneak you food,” Jack says earnestly. “Mike and I were thinking-” 

“I told you, Jack,” Alex says exasperatedly. “Visiting hours are _once a day._ Luke needs to eat more than that.” 

“No, he doesn’t,” Michael says. “Not if we bring him enough food.” 

“He can space it out,” Jack suggests. 

“Yeah, I’m sure Luke would fucking _love_ to eat cold and soggy chicken nuggets,” Calum says sarcastically, and Alex nods and points at him, all _thank God, finally someone speaking some sense._

“They’re not going to get _soggy,”_ Michael protests. 

“Yeah, do you _know_ how many preservatives they put in those things?” Jack adds. 

“And you think that’s what Luke should be eating to mend his broken bones?” Alex asks dryly. 

“He’s fine,” Michael says breezily. “He’s twenty-one. His body’s been managing a poor diet so far.” Luke scowls.

“My diet’s fucking fine,” he says. “What’s wrong with my diet?” All four of them round on him in disbelief. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Calum demands, at the same time that Michael says: “What _isn’t_ wrong with your diet?” and Alex says: “When was the last time you even looked in the general direction of a vegetable?” and Jack says: “No, y’know, the man’s got a point. His diet could be worse.” 

“Just because it could be worse doesn’t mean it isn’t bad,” Calum points out. 

“Credit where credit is due,” Jack says solemnly, “he’s doing a better job than he could be.” 

“The only way Luke’s diet could be worse is if he went all Monsieur Mangetout,” Alex says, and the four of them blink at him. “What?” he says defensively. “C’mon, Monsieur Mangetout? You know Monsieur Mangetout.” 

“You wanna flex your French pronunciation skills one more time?” Michael asks, raising an eyebrow. “The floor is yours, mate.” Alex rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “My point is-” but they don’t get to find out what his point is, because then the door’s opening and Ashton’s sticking his head in. Luke wishes he’d been able to shower this morning - he’s sure his hair is sticking up all over the place, and that half the curls are flattened and frizzy, and he sort of wants to say _sorry, Ashton, I swear I’m at least a little hotter than this most of the time._

“Visiting hours are over, guys, I’m sorry,” Ashton says apologetically, and all four of Luke’s friends groan. “Sorry, sorry, I know,” Ashton says, and then throws Luke a smile before closing the door as they start gathering their things together, the sound of chairs scraping filling the room. 

“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Jack says to Luke, nodding at the door Ashton’s just closed. 

“Yeah,” Luke says. “He’s also my nurse, so. Very illegal.” Michael pulls a face. 

“Is it?” he asks. Calum and Alex both throw him hard looks. 

“Yes,” they chorus. 

“Fucking hell,” Jack grumbles, pulling his coat on. “Laws are really fucking boring.” In this case, Luke can’t help but heartily agree. 

“Well, hurry up with the healing, and then he won’t be your nurse anymore,” Michael suggests. 

“Pretty sure it’s still illegal,” Alex notes. 

“So?” 

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” Alex mutters, and pushes him towards the door. “We’ll come back tomorrow if you’re still here, Luke.” 

“Us too,” Calum says, shepherding Michael in the direction of the door too. “Bye, Luke. Be safe.” 

“Be safe?” Luke echoes. “What sort of fucking danger am I in at a hospital?” 

“Falling in love, apparently,” Calum says, and then the door swings shut behind him. 

Well, Luke thinks. He’s not exactly wrong. 

\-------

Ashton comes back at around seven p.m. with Luke’s dinner, although _I don’t usually serve dinner, it’s not a nurse’s job, but Jenna’s just had to go home for a family emergency and I was the closest person at hand._ It’s salmon, and Luke pulls a face when he sees it that makes Ashton laugh. 

“You don’t like salmon?” he says. “We have veggie options too, if you want that.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Luke says hastily, not wanting to come across like the fussy eater he is, for some reason. “Salmon’s good. I like salmon. It’s, uh, a good fish.” Ashton blinks at him for a moment, and then snorts. 

“Sure,” he says, and sets the tray down on Luke’s lap carefully. “How are you doing?” 

“Fine,” Luke says, which isn’t really a lie this time. “Everything still hurts, but.” He shrugs. “It’s alright.” 

“You’re a trooper,” Ashton says, grinning. Luke nods solemnly, using his unbroken left hand to slot the knife into his right hand. 

“It’s the top level care I’m receiving,” he says, and Ashton laughs again. 

“Flattery will get you places,” he says, and Luke pauses, glancing over at Ashton. 

“What places?” he asks, and Ashton winks, and sets a slice of chocolate cake down on the tray balanced on Luke’s legs. Luke looks down at it, and then back up at Ashton. 

“That was on the menu,” he says. “You were going to give that to me anyway.” Ashton just grins, and heads back to the door. 

“I would’ve withheld it if you hadn’t complimented my exemplary nursing skills,” he says, as he pulls the door open. 

“I thought you said dinner service wasn’t part of the job description?” 

“I might fight for it to be now,” Ashton says, pulling the door open. “Everyone needs to play God from time to time.” Luke snorts. 

“That’s a completely non-alarming sentence to come out of your nurse’s mouth,” he says. “I think I’ll check my IV myself tonight.” Ashton’s lips hitch up in an amused smile. 

“Enjoy your dinner,” he says, and then he’s gone. 

\-------

The next day, Luke is told that he can be discharged after a series of tests have been carried out, which are booked in for five p.m. - right in the middle of visiting hours, so he texts everybody not to come - and then get delayed until nine p.m. By ten, Luke’s still waiting for someone to come round as promised, and is getting incredibly restless, so turns to reach for his phone again - and stops dead. 

There’s writing on his arm. 

Writing that he, with his broken right hand, did not put there. 

He yanks his arm close to him, then turns to fumble with the light above his bed because he can’t fucking see, and squints at the writing. 

It’s just three words, small and scribbled like they had to be written fast or A would have lost the nerve to say them, but they make Luke’s heart thud against his ribcage like it’s trying to break a few more of his ribs.

_Are you okay?_

What? 

Luke’s reaching for the pen in his drawer before he’s even thought about it, a million responses racing through his mind. _What the fuck,_ being one, _I thought you didn’t want to be my soulmate_ another, _why are you talking to me now? What changed?_ in there somewhere too, but mostly: _why?_

It’s a good thing it’s only _why,_ too, because writing the letters takes a fucking age and when he’s done, it sort of looks like something he would have produced when he was four years old. The reply is instantaneous, though, and Luke can barely believe it, feels like he’s hallucinating the way the letters are appearing one by one on his arm. He’s too scared to blink, like it’ll break the spell somehow, like looking away will make A think _well, he’s replied, that’s good enough,_ but another sentence appears, letter by letter.

_You haven’t complained about Jack in a few days._

So they _have_ been reading Luke’s quasi-diary-entries. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

Shit. Luke has no idea what to say. Should he tell the truth? Should he try and take a mile from the inch A is giving him, ask what the fuck is going on, press the question of why A doesn’t want to be his soulmate? No, that’ll make them clam up again. Maybe he just shouldn’t reply at all. After all, it’s not like A’s ever given Luke anything when he’s been pouring his heart out in the early hours of the night, is it? Maybe Luke should give them a taste of their own medicine. 

He only considers that for a total of half a second before the pen is back on his skin, writing underneath A’s handwriting - God, it’s fucking surreal. 

_I’m in hospital._ _Broke a bunch of bones._ There’s a longer pause this time, and when a few minutes of Luke staring intently down at his arm have passed with no further reply and he’s thinking _fuck, that’s it_ with a sinking heart, a few more words appear. 

_I’m sorry to hear that. Get well soon._

Luke’s just about to put the pen back down to his arm, to write a quick _thanks,_ because it’s about all he can manage to write legibly with the weird way he has to hold his pen with the cast on, when more scribbles start appearing. 

_How are you doing?_ Luke bites his lip. 

_Fine,_ he says. _You?_

 _I’m not the one in hospital._

_True,_ Luke writes. _My body aches._

 _You should rest. Best thing you can do for your body._ Luke huffs out a laugh. 

_You sound like my nurse._

_Your nurse knows what they’re talking about._

_I’d be concerned if he didn’t._ The reply takes a little longer to come this time, but after a few minutes more words are appearing. 

_Touché._ Luke’s just staring down at the word, racking his brain to think of something to say to keep the conversation going because fuck, _fuck,_ he’s talking to his fucking _soulmate,_ when a few more words appear. 

_Goodnight, Luke. Get some rest._

_I’d like to, but I’m waiting for more tests,_ Luke writes. He waits, and he waits, but no response comes. 

Fuck, he thinks, rereading the entire conversation over and over, and over just for good measure. Fuck. He’s spoken to his soulmate. He’s spoken to A. He’s spoken to his fucking _soulmate._

He reaches over for his phone, turns his arm this way and that and takes a photo, and sends it to his group chat with Michael and Calum. He sees Michael’s typing bubble pop up before the second picture has even sent, but then the door is opening and Doctor Nichols is striding in, and Luke hastily puts his phone down and nods along to the list of tests she’s rattling off that need doing before he can be discharged, mind covered in an impervious sheen of _soulmate soulmate soulmate_ that stops any of it going in. 

Fuck, Luke thinks, as he’s getting a bright light shone in his eyes and trying his hardest not to blink or look over at his phone, which is buzzing incessantly on his bedside table. _Fuck._

\-------

Michael and Calum agree that this is a positive step. 

_(Are you fucking kidding me?_ Calum says, when Luke voices hesitancy. _They checked in on you. They fucking care._

 _rt_ , Michael says.)

Luke’s not so certain, though. The thought of it is sending delicious sparks dancing from his heart to his fingertips and down to his abdomen (or maybe that’s the medication, he’s not entirely sure), but he doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, given A’s hard stance and silence for the past few months. But A would have received a letter if Luke had died, and the government are usually pretty quick to send those out, so maybe there _is_ something to be said for the fact that they only waited three nights before asking after Luke. 

Luke’s body is too exhausted to let him stay up psyching himself out over it, though, forcing him into a deep sleep as soon as Doctor Nichols has told him he’s free to leave the next morning and left him be, and when he wakes up the next morning it’s to someone opening his curtains. 

“Hey,” they say, as Luke’s eyelids try to fight the fucking sun, and Luke shields his eyes with his hand to see Ashton silhouetted by the window. 

“Weren’t you on shift last night?” he asks, and Ashton smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Life of a nurse,” he says tiredly. “Sorry for the light, by the way. Figured it would be a nicer way to wake you up than ripping your IV out.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Luke says, squinting and scrunching his face up, and Ashton huffs out a small laugh as he makes his way over to Luke’s side. 

“This isn’t going to be pleasant,” he warns. 

“That’s a shame,” Luke says. “I always thought having needles ripped out of me would be an enjoyable experience.” Ashton smiles again, and there are a few crinkles around his eyes. God, he really is fucking pretty. 

“Are you looking forward to going home?” he asks. 

“I’m looking forward to not having to eat salmon anymore,” Luke says. 

“Hey, I offered you the veggie option,” Ashton says, and Luke winces as he feels the needle and whatever the fuck else being pulled out of his vein. 

“I didn’t want to be a nuisance,” Luke says. 

“Hold this,” Ashton instructs, and Luke reaches over to hold the gauze on his arm as Ashton reaches for a clear plaster. “You wouldn’t have been a nuisance. You’ve been an exemplary patient.” 

“Is that a compliment?” Luke says. “I’m good at lying around being useless?” Ashton grins. 

“You’re not useless,” he says. “Patients keep me in a job.” Luke grins back. 

“I’ll try my best to get seriously injured again, then,” he says, and as Ashton turns away to the trolley he’s put Luke’s cannula on he catches the tail end of a small smile playing at his lips. 

“Legally and professionally, I can’t encourage that,” he says, and Luke snorts. 

“But personally?” 

“No comment.” 

“So you want me to hurt myself?” 

“Is that what ‘no comment’ means these days?” Ashton says, throwing Luke a glance over his shoulder as he pushes his trolley over to the door, eyes twinkling. “Get some rest, Luke.”

“Wait,” Luke blurts, and Ashton stops. Luke blinks, like he's waiting for Ashton to say something, even though he's the one who'd asked him to stop, because shit, he hasn't thought this through. Something in his brain just said _stop, ask him out, ask him out._ And really, he thinks, why not, because if he embarrasses himself he'll never have to see Ashton again, and he's no longer Ashton's patient, so he takes a deep breath, says _fuck it,_ and mumbles: “Uh. Look. Would you- would you want to go out? With me? Not- not now, obviously. Some other time. But- y’know. Would you?” Jesus Christ. Ashton hesitates for a moment, and then throws Luke a slightly sad, kind smile. 

“I’d love to, Luke,” he says, and Luke’s heart soars for a moment, flying higher than it’s ever gone before “but I can’t.” Fuck. Luke’s heart should have read Icarus. 

“Why not?” Luke says. “I’m not your patient anymore.” Ashton shakes his head. 

“Still not allowed,” he says. “Only exception is if you find out you’re soulmates.” Well, fuck. 

“Oh,” Luke says, and hopes the wobble in his voice isn’t as audible to Ashton as it is to him. “Okay.”

“I really- fuck. Sorry. I just- I’m sorry, Luke.” Ashton smiles at him again, barely more than a twitch of his lips, and then he’s gone. 

Luke leans back against his pillows and stares up at the ceiling, heart pounding. 

Maybe he’s just not meant to be with people whose names start with the letter A.

\-------

Luke sits around at home for a week before he decides he’s so bored and so sick of being fussed over by his parents that he insists on coming back to work. Alex, in turn, insists on picking him up and dropping him off every evening, like he’s doing a fucking school run, and Jack insists on Luke doing nothing besides working the till so he can sit down. It’s fucking boring, because all the fun parts of the job are helping little kids buy their first guitars or talking to seasoned professionals about the ins and outs of the instruments, not smiling politely and waiting while they swipe their cards. He has nothing to do between people paying, so he spends most of his time on his phone, swiping through his various social media apps and wishing his hand weren’t in a cast so he could at least play guitar. It’s not exactly the _worst_ way to spend his time, though, especially now that he’s found that forum of people pretending to be middle-class Dads which is oddly relatable and funnier to him than it probably is to anyone else. He’s in the middle of scrolling through it in a particularly quiet lull on a Thursday afternoon, screenshotting the best ones to send to Ben and Jack, when the shadow of a person looms over him.

“Hey, I- oh,” they say, and Luke looks up from his phone hastily to find-

“Ashton?” he says, surprised. 

“Hi,” Ashton says. God, he looks good; he’s wearing a leather jacket over a faded grey Guns ‘N’ Roses t-shirt and black jeans, and his hair is falling into his eyes a little, and Luke sort of wants to kiss him and sort of wants to die. 

“Uh, hi,” Luke says. “Sorry. I just, um. Wasn’t expecting to see you here. How can I help you?” Ashton blinks at him, and then smiles. 

“I need some new strings for my Strat,” he says, and Luke nods. Of course Ashton plays guitar. Hopefully he doesn’t play, like, fucking drums, or something. That would probably be too much for Luke’s little heart to handle. 

“Sure,” he says, turning to the selection of strings behind him. “Ernie Ball Regular Slinky alright?” 

“Sounds good,” Ashton says, and Luke pulls a pack down and sets them on the desk in front of him, busying himself with adding up the cost like he doesn’t know it off by heart. 

“How are you doing?” Ashton asks as Luke furiously types in numbers to avoid looking at Ashton, making Luke pause and glance up at him. 

“You’re not on the job right now,” he says, and Ashton huffs out a laugh, raking a hand through his curls. 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t care,” he says. “So?”

“I’m alright,” Luke says. “Bored, mostly. Kind of shit not being able to use my hand.” Ashton makes a small noise of sympathy, and Luke dramatically presses a button on the till and announces: “That’s fourteen dollars, please.” 

“You won’t have to have the cast on for long,” Ashton says, digging around in his pocket for his wallet. Luke tries not to watch the way the movement exposes a sliver of his stomach. Thank fuck the scrubs had made Ashton entirely shapeless, because Jesus Christ. 

“I feel like I’ll have to relearn how to use my hand normally when it comes off,” Luke admits, accepting the twenty Ashton hands him and fumbling with the till for a five and a one. 

“That’s pretty normal,” Ashton says, accepting the change. Luke’s fingers brush against Ashton’s palm, and he tries not to let them twitch at the contact. “You’ll be used to it after a day or two.” 

“Maybe I’ll grow attached to it, though,” Luke says, and Ashton snorts. “I mean, everyone has to be nice to me now.” Ashton looks down at the cast, which has _Luke sucks big dicks_ written on it in huge, black letters courtesy of Jack, and then back up at Luke pointedly, who sighs. “That’s just Jack,” he says, and right on cue, Jack pops his head out of the back room. 

“What’s me?” he says, and then brightens. “Hey, Nurse Irwin!” 

“Hi, Mr Barakat,” Ashton says. 

“Hey, idiot, Luke’s sexy nurse is here,” Jack shouts, and Alex’s head appears out of the office. 

“What?” he says. “Oh, hey, Nurse Irwin.”

“Hi, Mr Gaskarth,” Ashton says politely. “How’re you?” 

“Great, thanks,” Alex says. “Better now that you’ve patched my best employee up.” 

“Hey,” Jack says, affronted. “Aren’t I your best employee?”

“Did Nurse Irwin patch you up?” 

“Not yet.”

“Maybe you’ll be my best employee after that, then.” 

“Good to know my nursing skills are what keep your business running,” Ashton puts in, and Alex grins. 

“Think it’s more than just your nursing skills,” he says cryptically, and then disappears back into his office. 

“Jesus Christ,” Luke mutters under his breath, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Uh. I’m sorry. Here. Um. Have fun?” Ashton smiles, a little teasing, a little amused. 

“Will do,” he says. “Look after that arm for me.” Luke’s heart skips a beat. _For me._

“Well, I was planning on smashing it up a bit more, but now that you’ve said that…” he says, and Ashton laughs, eyes twinkling. 

“See you around, Luke,” he says, pocketing his strings and heading for the door. Luke watches him go, and then groans and puts his head in his hands. 

“What the fuck?” Jack says. “Why didn’t you ask him out?”

“I did,” Luke mumbles into his palms. “The day I got discharged. He said no.” 

“What?” Alex pipes up, sticking his head out of his office again, because apparently he’s still listening too. “Why? Does he already have a soulmate?” Luke’s stomach flips. He’s been trying not to think about that possibility. But surely Ashton would have said that, right? It’s the kindest way to let someone down. And he _had_ said he would have loved to, however much out of politeness that may have been. 

“Apparently it’s still not allowed, unless you’re soulmates.” 

“Well, you could be-” Jack starts, but immediately falls silent upon a stern look from Alex. “Fine. Well, since you’ve got nothing better to do in your spare time now, you can start by reorganising those CDs you fucked up the other day.” He nods at the cardboard box that’s been sitting behind Luke for a few days now, and Luke rolls his eyes, and bends down to pick it up with a dramatic sigh.

“Fuck you,” Luke says sullenly, and gets to work. 

\-------

Nine days after Luke’s discharged from the hospital, another message appears on his arm. 

_How are you doing?_

Luke’s heart skips a beat, and he reaches for a pen with fumbling fingers, slotting it into his hand as best as he can manage.

 _Better,_ Luke writes. _I’m out of hospital._

_I’m glad to hear that._

_Why do you ask?_ Luke decides to chance it. Fuck it, he thinks. Why not? 

_You still haven’t been writing._ Luke swallows.

 _My writing hand is in a cast._

_Oh._ Luke frowns.

_Could you not tell from my handwriting?_

_Honestly? No._ Luke scowls. 

_My handwriting isn’t that bad._

_Isn’t it?_ Luke’s scowl deepens. A is fucking rude. Before he can come up with a suitably haughty response, though, they’re writing something else. 

_Can you just write me something in the evenings to let me know you’re okay?_

Luke stares at it for a moment, something bitter rising in his throat. He doesn’t owe A that. A’s done next to nothing but ignore him, and now they’re demanding something from him? 

_You never let me know you’re okay,_ he writes back, a little petulantly. There’s a longer pause this time, like A’s really thinking about the answer, because when the words come they’re written like they’ve been rehearsed prior to pen touching skin.

_Do you want me to?_

Luke hesitates. Does he? Of course he does, it’s his fucking _soulmate,_ but they don’t _want_ him, and it might make him more attached to them and make it hurt more when they inevitably reject him again. 

(Oh, who is he fucking kidding.) 

_Yes._

_Okay._ That’s it, they don’t say anything else, and Luke doesn’t want to chase them, so he puts the pen down and stares at the conversation. 

Okay. So they’re- so they’re sort of talking now. That’s something, right? Maybe they can at least be friends. 

(He pushes away the _that’s going to hurt too much, Luke, that’s going to hurt far too fucking much_ that flashes like a neon warning sign in his head, rolls over and goes to sleep.) 

\-------

After that, he falls into a sort of routine. 

He goes to work, plays on his phone, jumps whenever the door opens in case it’s Ashton, like his strings are going to break within a week or two, then goes home or goes to Michael and Calum’s to watch them play videogames (he’d discovered fairly early on Xbox controllers and casts don’t mix), then gets ready for bed and writes A a quick _I’m okay_ message. Sometimes it’s just that, just _I’m okay,_ and sometimes it’s _I’m okay, had a good day at work,_ or _I’m good, really tired,_ or _I’m okay, Jack broke another bass guitar today, I don’t know what he has against those things._ A always replies with _Thanks, I’m okay,_ but it’s something. It’s almost enough, and Luke can make do with that. 

Six and a half weeks after getting out of the hospital, Luke gets his arm cast taken off. His leg still has a few weeks to go, and he’s told his ribs are healing nicely, congratulations on refraining from strenuous exercise (Luke almost laughs in the doctor’s face), but Luke’s not really thinking about that. Logically, he knows the chances are next to nothing, but he can’t help but look out for Ashton, just in case. He doesn’t see him, of course, but when he half-jokingly mentions it to Calum and Michael that night, Michael makes an offhand comment that sticks in Luke’s mind. 

“Looks like Ashton’s helping you get over A,” he says, eyes glazed over as he stares at the screen in front of them. 

“What do you mean?” Luke says. 

“He’s all you fucking think about despite only meeting him, like, four times,” Michael says, and then swears loudly as Calum shoots him. “You _cunt.”_

“Should’ve been paying attention,” Calum says, with a shrug. 

Luke’s thinking about that remark as he’s getting ready for bed that night, staring at himself in the mirror as his right hand tries to remember how to use a toothbrush. Maybe Michael’s right. Maybe Ashton is the antidote to A. Or, at the very least, he’s proof that Luke _can_ like people that aren’t his soulmate. The thought makes him smile around his toothbrush, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest. Yeah, his soulmate might not want him, but maybe he’s not doomed to be alone, after all. 

He spits and rinses, and then wanders into his room, picking up his pen to write his daily _I’m okay_ message to A. A millimetre before the pen touches his skin, though, he hesitates. He might as well ask the question he’s asked a hundred times before, now that A actually speaks to him, even if it’s only to say the same three words every night. The worst that can happen is he gets ignored again. 

_I’m okay,_ he writes, and then, _why don’t you want to be my soulmate?_

 _Thanks, I’m okay._ The response comes immediately, like A’s been waiting for Luke to check in, but nothing else follows it. Luke watches his arm for a few moments, waiting for more to show up, and then sighs, turns his light off, rolls over and falls asleep. 

\-------

When he wakes up the next morning, he hobbles into the bathroom, yawning and stretching, and as he’s reaching for his toothbrush he happens to glance in the mirror - and stops dead. 

There’s something new on his arm. 

He looks down so fast he thinks he might have snapped his own neck, heart skipping a beat. 

_I want to choose who I love._

So it is that, Luke thinks, testing the weight of the words on his heart. They aren’t as heavy as he’d expected them to be. In fact, he thinks, as an image of Ashton flashes through his head, he sort of respects it. A can have their chosen love. Luke can find someone else. 

(Another image of Ashton flashes through his head.) 

He hobbles back to his room and sits down on his bed, picking up the pen and thinking. _Fair enough_ sounds a little passive aggressive, as does _that’s fair,_ but Luke can’t think of anything else to say, so he settles for _that’s fair_ and adds a little smiley to try and mitigate any potential hostility that might come across in the words. He blinks at the phrase for a moment, half-hoping for a response, but it’s eight in the morning and the words must have come at around four or five for them to still be there, so A’s probably asleep. So Luke shakes himself out of it, reaches for his toothbrush, and forgets about it. 

\-------

A week after that, Ashton comes back into the shop. 

“Hi, Luke,” he says, waving and grinning as he closes the door behind him, because of course he’s a fucking gentleman who doesn’t let the door swing shut heavily like almost everyone else who comes in. “You sell drums, right?” Oh, Jesus. He’s _not_ a drummer. He is _not._

“Uh,” Luke says intelligently, like there aren’t two drum kits set up opposite him. “Yes?” 

“Sweet,” Ashton says, ambling over with his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing short sleeves today, because it’s November and the weather’s starting to really warm up, and Luke can’t help but thank whatever deity may exist that he lives in the southern hemisphere, because Jesus Christ, Ashton’s arms are a fucking sight to behold. “I need a new snare.” 

“Sure,” Luke says, tucking the pen he’s been holding behind his ear. “For- for you? Or- like, as a gift?” Ashton throws him an amused look. 

“Who gifts snare drums?” he asks, and Luke shrugs, trying not to think about Ashton drumming. Good fucking God. 

“People have gifted stranger things,” he says, and waves a hand at the drums opposite. 

“Oh, hey, you got your cast off!” Ashton says brightly. “How is it?”

“It’s fine,” Luke says. “Still feels a bit weak.” 

“I’m sure you know how to strengthen it,” Ashton says solemnly. Luke blinks at him. Is he- surely he’s not- is he- “Oh my God,” Ashton mutters, cheeks a little pink, like he’s just realised what he’s said. “I meant- I meant that the doctor should have given you a few exercises. Fuck. I did _not_ mean- I’m not- fuck.” Luke can’t help but burst out laughing, warmth curling in the pit of his stomach as Ashton throws him a sheepish smile. God, he’s fucking cute. Luke is _far_ too far gone on this man. 

“Yeah, I forgot them,” he admits, because _I didn’t take them in because I was too busy looking at every nurse that walked past in case they were you_ sounds insanely creepy. Ashton throws him a slightly exasperated look. 

“Luke,” he says admonishingly, and Luke rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. 

“What was that you said about me being an exemplary patient?” he reminds Ashton, who shakes his head, grinning. 

“I should have reserved judgement,” he says, making his way over to the drum kits Luke had pointed out. “Hey, do you have any sticks for these?” 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Luke says, hobbling out from behind his desk to the basket that stores test sticks and then over to Ashton, ignoring his protests of _you shouldn’t be putting weight on that foot, Luke, let me get them, tell me where they are._

“It’s fine,” Luke says. “It’s getting taken off next week.” Ashton throws him a look. 

“Yeah, _next week,”_ he says. “These things have specific healing times for a reason.” Luke just waves his hand dismissively. 

“I have another foot,” he says, and Ashton tuts, but a small smile is tugging at his lips. 

“Hey, Luke?” a voice shouts - Jack, whose head pops out of the back room. “Oh, hey, Nurse Irwin. Luke, can you make a note that we need to order more of the Dunlop Hendrix Wahs, the SolidGoldFX NU-33s, the-” shit, Luke thinks, looking around him wildly; there’s no fucking paper, and Luke’s got a _broken foot,_ so he can’t get back to the desk before Jack’s finished rattling this list off. As he’s spinning on the spot, the pen he’d tucked behind his ear dislodges itself and threatens to fly out, and he slaps a hand up to stop it before realising _hey, pen, I have skin, I’ll just write it on my arm and write it on paper later._

“The Hendrix Wahs, the NU-33s, and what?” he calls, scribbling on his arm. 

“The Hydra Stereo and Reverbs, and the Boss Pocket Processors.” Luke nods, frowning as he notes it all down, and then looks back up at Jack. 

“Got it,” he says, and Jack gives him a thumbs up and disappears back into the back room. “Sorry-” he starts, turning back to Ashton, and then drinks in his ashen face, and frowns. “Are you okay?” Then he notices in the corner of his eye some writing on Ashton’s arm, and thinks _huh, that’s weird, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there when he came in - in fact, I’m certain that wasn’t there when he came in, because I made a mental map of every inch of his body,_ and looks down, trying to surreptitiously read it. 

_Hendrix Wahs, NU-33s, Hydra S &R, Bass Pocket Processors. _

Luke’s list. Luke’s list, in Luke’s handwriting, has just appeared on Ashton’s arm. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“Wait,” Luke says slowly, and looks back up at Ashton’s stricken face. “Wait. You- hang on. How did my list just appear on your arm?” 

“How do you think?” Ashton says quietly. Luke blinks. 

“I don’t know,” he says. Ashton stares at him. 

“I- what? What do you mean?” he says. Luke frowns. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” he says. “How did my list appear on your arm?” 

“Jesus Christ, Luke,” Ashton whispers, and then grabs the pen out of Luke’s hand and scrawls _hi_ on his own arm. It sits there next to Luke’s list, looking oddly harmonious for two things that are completely unrelated, and Luke stares at it for a moment before looking down at his own arm. 

There, right next to the messy scribble of his list, is one new word. 

_Hi._

Oh, fuck. 

“Oh, fuck,” Luke says faintly, and steadies himself against a nearby keyboard. “Oh my God. You’re- you’re A?”

“You’re Luke?” Ashton sounds just as faint as Luke. 

“I- yes? Fucking- how did you not- you met all of my friends? Michael, Calum, Jack, Alex? At the hospital?” 

“I only knew them by surname,” Ashton says. “I- fuck. You’re Luke.” 

“You’re A,” Luke says, and then a thought occurs to him and he swallows, and grits his teeth. “Fuck. You’re A.” The words come out harder this time, tinged with bitterness, and it makes Ashton’s eyes snap up to him, big and wide and so pretty it would take Luke’s breath away if he had any left to give. 

“What?” 

“You- you don’t want this.” Luke gestures a little feebly, not wanting to be too specific, but Ashton just looks at him like he doesn’t quite get it. “Y’know. This. Us.” He swallows. “Me.” Ashton’s gaze softens. 

“Oh, Luke,” he says. “I- fuck. I do. I want you. I just didn’t- I didn’t want _Luke._ But I want you.”

“But I _am_ Luke.” 

“I didn’t know that, though,” Ashton says. “I- oh, fuck. You’re my _soulmate.”_ The word sends a chill down Luke’s spine. Jesus. He’d sort of almost come to terms with the fact he’d never meet his soulmate, never have a soulmate, never hear those words out loud, and now here he is, standing with one foot in a cast at work, talking to the hot nurse he’s not been able to get off his mind for two months who just so happens to be his fucking _soulmate_ who had semi-torn Luke’s heart out from its resting place on his birthday. 

And now, he’s not sure how he feels about it. 

“You didn’t want me,” he says, more than a little accusingly. “And now you do.” He doesn’t ask anything in particular, but Ashton seems to know what he’s pointing at anyway, because he bites his lip. 

“Look,” he says. “I- I just didn’t want to fall for someone because it was assigned to me, or whatever. I wanted it to be a choice, not something I was forced into. And then I did fall for you, without knowing you were my soulmate, but obviously I- I couldn’t, because you were a patient - or a former patient - so I just- I thought that was it, but. Fuck. I fell for you on my own, and it turns out you’re my fucking soulmate.” Luke swallows. When he puts it like that, it makes a lot more sense. Luke can kind of get that. And the fact that Ashton’s saying he fell for Luke but just couldn’t act on it is definitely helping matters - Luke’s easily buttered up by an ego stroke. 

“You broke my heart,” he says, matter-of-fact, and Ashton swallows. 

“I hoped I hadn’t,” he says, like that makes it any better. 

“You could’ve at least waited ‘til it wasn’t my birthday anymore,” Luke says. “Or explained yourself. I thought it was me.”

“You thought what was you?”

“I thought- I thought I’d put you off, somehow. That I was the problem.” Ashton’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. 

“God, no. Jesus. No, no. I just- I wanted to be clear, and I thought the less I engaged the better, y’know? Like, the less you’d have to latch onto, the easier you’d forget about me.” He hesitates. “I shouldn’t’ve done it on your birthday, though,” he says. “I’m sorry. And- I’m sorry for everything else, too. It was never you.” 

And, okay. Luke’s the type to hold grudges. He’s petty and he’s childish, and he doesn’t forget shit like this. But he’s also an adult and he’s (to some degree, at least) capable of rational thought, so he shoves away his first instinct that says _spite him, go on, make him hurt like he hurt you_ and thinks about it. Yeah, Ashton fucked up. He should’ve waited until it wasn’t Luke’s birthday, and he should’ve explained himself, and he just should’ve been a lot more communicative from the beginning. But the past week or two, Luke’s actually been okay with the idea that A doesn’t want him, so he can’t really hold that against Ashton anymore, not when his heart has patched itself up the past five months and shrugs off the idea of not having his soulmate in the way he’d always wanted. And he does understand Ashton’s reasoning, even if he doesn’t agree with it, so he clears his throat, and, just to make sure, says:

“So- so you _do_ want it now?” 

“Fuck, I- well, I want to see where it can go,” Ashton says. “I- I don’t want to make any promises. But I’d like to try.” Luke blinks at him. 

Ashton wants to try. Ashton, who is Luke’s fucking _soulmate,_ wants to try the two of them on for size. 

“Okay,” Luke says. “Okay. Yeah. We can try.” 

“Yeah?” Ashton says, a little nervously. 

“Yeah,” Luke says. “I mean, I’ve been sort of infatuated with you from a distance since meeting you, anyway, so.” He shrugs, and Ashton grins and opens his mouth to say something, and then there’s a yell from behind them. 

“Hey, Luke,” Alex says. “Oh, hey, Nurse Irwin. Luke, can you call our accountant? I need the books going over by- uh. Why are you both smiling like you’ve committed a crime? You’ve not committed a crime on these premises, have you?” 

“What?” Luke says. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“What’s wrong with you two?” Alex says suspiciously. Luke glances over at Ashton, who shrugs, tiny and imperceptible, like _sure, go on._ Fuck.

“Uh,” Luke says, and swallows. “Turns out Ashton is, um. Kind of my soulmate?” Alex blinks at him. 

“Who’s Ashton?” Luke blinks back, and then points at Ashton. _“That’s-_ that’s your soulmate? _Ashton’s_ the dickhead?” The back room door opens. 

“Who’s a dickhead?” Jack asks, intrigued. 

“Ashton,” Alex says. 

“Who’s Ashton?”

“Nurse Irwin.”

“Oh. Hey again, Nurse Irwin. Why are you a dickhead?”

“He’s Luke’s soulmate.” Jack looks at Alex, and then at Luke, and then back again. 

“No, he isn’t,” he says calmly. 

“He is,” Luke says. 

“Fucking hell,” Jack says, and then goes back into the back room and closes the door. 

“Hey,” Alex shouts, frowning. “Get back out here. Luke’s just found his fucking _soulmate.”_

“I’m not dealing with this mess,” Jack yells back, muffled by the door. 

“What mess?” Ashton asks, bewildered. Alex whips around to stare at him. 

“The mess you made,” he says. “Y’know. When you broke little Luke’s heart on his twenty-first birthday.” Ashton has the good grace to look embarrassed, and even winces slightly. Good, Luke thinks, a little childishly. Public humiliation probably makes them even for Luke’s birthday being ruined, isn’t it? 

“I didn’t mean to,” Ashton says, sounding very much like a five-year-old.

“I don’t care,” Alex says. “You two sort shit out between yourselves.” Ashton blinks at him. 

“Right,” he says, and turns to Luke. “So. Uh. I feel like now is the time to ask you on a date.” 

“What, with my chaperone watching?” Luke says, throwing Alex a pointed glance, and Alex throws his hands up in exasperation and heads back into his office. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ashton says, with a small smile. “It’s sweet how protective they are of you.” Which, yeah, but like, _fuck,_ because if Ashton thinks this is protective, he’s got another thing coming when he meets Michael and Calum. Luke bites his lip.

“Wait ‘til you meet Michael and Calum,” he says, a little warningly, a little gleefully. 

“So is that a yes?” 

“A yes to what?”

“Me asking you out.” Luke blinks.

“Ashton, I asked you out, like, two months ago,” he says. “And you’re my soulmate. Obviously it’s a yes.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” Ashton says, a little defensively. “It’s good to check.”

“What, so now you’re the king of communicating?” Ashton throws him a slightly hard look, but it softens when he sees the smile on Luke’s lips. 

“I sort of deserve that,” he admits, and Luke grins. 

“Part and parcel of going on a date with me,” he says, and Ashton grins back.

“At least I to go on a date with you,” he says. “Softens the blow.”

Yeah. Luke could get used to the way his heart is trying to communicate with him through the medium of interpretive dance.

(It’s a good thing his soulmate’s a nurse.) 

\-------

_Hurry up,_ Luke scribbles on his arm as quickly as possible. _I didn’t pay for parking._

 _Jesus, Luke,_ comes back almost immediately. _I’m on my way back._

_I can tell by your handwriting._

_You’re one to talk._

_Fuck off._

_xxx_

Luke puts the pen back in the glove compartment and taps his fingers on the gear stick, peering at the revolving doors to try and spot his boyfriend. It only takes about thirty more seconds before he sees him walking out, looking around for a moment until he sees Luke parked badly and illegally and jogs over, shaking his head fondly. 

“Idiot,” he says, when he gets in the car. “If we get a fine, you’re paying it.” 

“You’ll have to bargain with Alex to give me a raise, then,” Luke says, throwing the car into reverse without bothering to look over his shoulder. 

“Jesus, Luke, look where you’re fucking going,” Ashton says, even though there’s no one there. Luke shrugs, puts the car into first, and pulls out of the spot he’d been parked in. 

“What?” he says. “We’re right outside a hospital. It’s fine.” 

“Fucking hell,” Ashton mutters, but when Luke glances over he’s smiling. 

“So?” Luke prompts. “What did they say?” 

“It was fine,” Ashton says. “There are procedures in place for this sort of thing, y’know. They had the government papers confirming you’re my soulmate, and the ethical review was fine, because you just broke a few bones so I barely looked after you.” Luke scoffs. 

“Just broke a few bones?” he echoes, a little indignantly. “I broke half my fucking body.”

“Well, you did toss about fifty guitars onto yourself,” Ashton says, fumbling in the glove compartment as Luke pulls out onto the main road. 

“That was to get out of whatever Jack was trying to force me to do,” Luke says. “And it worked.” 

“Was it really worth it?” Ashton says, pulling the pen out of the glove compartment and raising his eyebrows. 

“Of course it was,” Luke says immediately. “I didn’t have to do whatever dumb shit Jack had in mind.” Out of the corner of his eye, Luke sees Ashton roll his eyes. 

“That was a perfect set-up to say _of course, Ash, I wouldn’t have met you otherwise,”_ Ashton tells him, and Luke grins. 

“Would’ve said that if I meant it,” he says, and Ashton sighs, but he’s grinning. 

“I don’t know why I bother with you,” he says, and Luke grins back. 

“Because I’m your soulmate,” he says. “And worse than that, you _chose_ to be stuck with me. This is all your own fucking doing.” 

“Fucking hell,” Ashton mumbles again, but he’s scribbling something on his arm, and when Luke glances down he sees a slightly shaky heart drawn right where his wrist meets the back of his hand, and smiles out at the road.

“Love you too.” 


End file.
